Page 4 of Songbird: Black Kite
My heart pounded, my anger flowing through my veins as I finally released some of the pent-up resentment that had been festering in my soul for the last five years. Over and over, I kicked the box, the purge of energy and emotion almost cathartic after all this time.
I gave one kick for the label, for holding us hostage long after we should have been freed.
A kick for Lewis, that backstabbing bastard.
One for Victoria, who’d handed him the knife.
For me, who’d chased all my dreams except the one that had truly mattered.
And who had let it all slip away without a fight.
“Fuck!”
The box lay in tatters at my feet, and I laughed at the sick parallel it made to my career. My chest heaved, sweat pouring down my face as I breathed in lungfuls of musty attic air, then dragged my hands down my face before shoving them through my hair. I didn’t wear it as long as I used to, but it still wasn’t what anyone would consider short. It hung down to my chin most days, and after the enjoyable but childish temper tantrum I’d just had, it was sticking to my cheeks and making me crazy.
“What am I doing?” I asked out loud, apparently to myself. “What in the actual fuck am I doing with my life?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Suddenly feeling drained, I pressed my back against the wall and slid down to the floor, my legs practically giving out beneath me as I surrendered to gravity.
Mick was right; I needed to get my shit together, but I just didn’t know how. What the fuck good was I if I wasn’t the lead singer ofBlack Kite? What purpose did I have in the world if I wasn’t making music? It’s not like I had any other skills, unless you counted drinking, and after last night, I didn’t think I was even that good at it anymore.
Music was where I belonged, where I thrived, but what was I supposed to do if music didn’t want me anymore?
Where did that leave me?
Stretching out my legs, I tapped my toe against another box, this one sounding heavier than the one I’d just destroyed, more solid. I frowned, striking the box with my boot a little harder and trying to identify the contents by the depth of the resulting thud. It was definitely heavier than t-shirts, more solid than any instruments I could think of. Cables, maybe? Or an amp? Something with some weight and heft to it, that was for sure.
Blowing out a breath, I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the last of the whiskey fog from my brain. I should go back to the house. If I stayed here on the floor any longer, I’d fall asleep, and if Harriette couldn’t find me by breakfast tomorrow morning, she’d probably call the fuckin’ cops.
I wanted to move. I did. I wanted to do the right thing for once and get my ass up and go to bed. But the mystery of what was in the box intrigued me more, so instead of hauling my sorry self to bed, I reached out and hauled the big box toward me instead, noticing that it was one of several identical boxes someone had placed in a row against the wall. It took me three tries, but I finally got the end of my fingernail under the edge of the tape holding the box closed, peeling it off like a bandage, slowly and with as much discomfort as possible.
Of all the things I had suspected might be in the box, I’d have never imagined what I actually found.
Letters. Hundreds and hundreds of letters.
All addressed toBlack Kite.
Looking around at the other boxes, I felt my eyebrows raise as I realized what my dusty attic was actually housing was not just the lonely remnants of my long-dead career, but also what appeared to be every single piece of fan mail we’d ever received.
All of it unopened and ignored.
Motherfucker.
Chapter three
Hawk
Present
“Youknowthere’snosmoking in the house, my boy.”
Harriette’s tone was firm, letting me know she meant business.
“I’m not in the house, Harry,” I replied without looking up. I was being a shit, and I knew it, but I was fuckin’ exhausted. I’d spent the last three days doing nothing but drinking, smoking, and hauling boxes, and I was beat.
The discovery of all the unopened fan mail had shaken me, sending me stumbling back to the house in a daze. I’d intended to sleep, to brush it all off and find something to do to get me through the week until I could host another party. But no matter how much I tried to sleep, I’d tossed and turned, my mind restless like it hadn’t been in years, my churning thoughts unwilling to release me until I’d finally thrown off the covers and stomped back to the garage, pulling down the first box and taking it back to the main house.
